


through a cloud of steam (we’re chasing the train)

by mallory



Series: where the plum trees grow [1]
Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Alcohol, Canon Compliant, F/M, Gender-neutral Reader, Long Live Feedback Comment Project, M/M, Mild Sexual Content, Other, Reader-Insert, backdated work
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-04
Updated: 2017-06-04
Packaged: 2019-09-19 19:45:57
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,205
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17008035
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mallory/pseuds/mallory
Summary: “I know thirteen different ways to kill you right now. If you’re smart, you’d be walking out that door this moment.”You look at him cooly. “There are worse things than death.”~&~Takes place duringCaptain America: Civil War, a day before Bucky visits the market.Reposted.





	through a cloud of steam (we’re chasing the train)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [LovelyMelody](https://archiveofourown.org/users/LovelyMelody/gifts).



> Title taken from ‘Lights Down Low’ by MAX (ft. gnash)

“How much?” The Romanian merchant looks at you expectantly, and you curse as you fumble with your money. “Uh… _Costă_?”

A voice from behind you speaks up, “ _Cât costă, doamnă_?”

The merchant lights up and starts speaking in rapid fire Romanian, motioning to your bag of plums and making a gesture by her ear.

Wide eyed and blinking, you turn to your saviour.

His shoulder length hair sways stiffly in the slight breeze, and you suppose the reason why he’s wearing a cap on a cloudy day is because his hair hasn’t been washed in days. He translates the price to you in English with an American accent, and you hand over the correct amount.

“ _Mulțumesc_ ,” he says with a nod.

You repeat him, smiling at the merchant. “Hey dude, thanks for that. I—” You turn to the helpful man, but the elderly woman in his place gives you a strange look. “Sorry, not you. Ma’am. Um—bye.”

You step away from the fruit stall and search the late-afternoon crowd littering about the market. The top of his snapback gives a wide bearing around a small group of teenagers messing about. You secure the bag around your right wrist, adjust your shoulder bag and chase after him. You dodge the morning crowd of locals and tourists alike; elderly women tugging around those shopping carts full of groceries, couples and kids munching on fruit as they lazily stroll around the marketplace.

Even through the thick clouds, the sun’s rays manage to thicken the air with heat, and sweat erupts down your back by the time you reach him. Breathless, you tap his shoulder. “Hey.”

He turns and stares expectantly. Not even a friendly smile or some form of recognition that you’re the person he helped not two minutes ago.

“Um… Thank you, for earlier.”

He blinks.

You lick your lips. “A couple weeks here and my Romanian’s still horrible. I appreciate your help.”

“Sure.” A word. You can work with that.

“I know what you’re thinking.”

His mouth presses into a firm line.

“You’re thinking, ‘That’s a lot of plums for one person.’ And you’re right. But what you don’t know is plums have surprising benefits. They prevent diabetes and improve memory. Plus they’re my favourite fruit.” You hold out your free left hand and introduce yourself with a smile, hoping you have enough charm to crack his tough exterior. “This is where you introduce yourself.”

“Bucky.”

You reach for his hand but start when his right grabs your wrist. Leather gloves creak as his fingers grip you firmly.

(Isn’t it a little hot out for gloves and four layers of clothing?)

You flex your fingers, feeling the bones and muscles in your wrist shift uncomfortably. “Sorry. Could you, uh… let go?”

He drops your hand and takes a step back.

You circle your wrist. He’s… odd. Intriguing. “So Bucky, huh? That’s a weird name. I mean, cool. Unusual. But not in an offensive way. I’m curious—were your parents hippies? I spent a few weeks with this hippie couple in Italy, and they were cool enough to let me tag along with them for a while. Hippies get a bad rap for living the way they do but they’re actually—”

“You talk a lot.”

You roll your lips together and jut out your chin. That’s not the first time you’ve been told. It’s not even the first time this week.

“It’s cute.” The muscles in his jaw tick, like he regrets the unexpected confession.

Smiling, you open the bag and offer it out to him. “Plum?”

He takes one from the bag with a curt, “Thanks.” He starts walking again and you fall in step beside him.

“So what brings you to Romania?”

The clouds break up for the summer sun to take centre stage, but the further from the market you walk, the towering buildings close in and shield you from the shine.

You glance at him from the corner of your eye. “Me, I’m backpacking through Europe. Bucket list and all that. Plus, anything to avoid home, you know?”

Bucky makes a noise from the back of his throat.

You latch onto that reaction like a dog with a bone. “Miss it, do you? Home?”

As you turn a corner at the end of the narrow street, he glances back. You almost miss his shoulders tightening because a flock of pigeons nearby take off noisily. He turns away, securing his snapback lower and grabbing your hand to tug you further along.

“What is it?”

“I don’t like it here. Too crowded.”

You glance over at the three other people loitering in front of a shop a few feet away.

He tows you down some alleyways with uneven footpaths. He doesn’t once slow down or let go of your hand, not even when you trip on a protruding brick and drop your bag of plums (“Oh no!” “Leave them.”). You feel like you’ve run the outskirts of Bucharest twice before you both find shelter in a small pub you wouldn’t otherwise know existed.

Three people currently holed up in the dark establishment, including the barkeeper, glance up at your sudden entrance but look away with disinterest.

You fan your flushed face. “What was that all about?”

“What?” He glances out of the murky windows. The musty smell in here suggests that they haven’t been opened in a long time, much less cleaned.

“Uh, the most confusing and gruelling fifteen minutes of my life? And that’s saying something ’cause I almost got lost in the Forbidden City.”

Bucky lets go of you, approaches the barkeeper and slaps down some Romanian Lei on the counter. Words are exchanged, and your ears pick up on the one thing you understand. _Vodka_.

Hell yes.

With two shot glasses and a bottle in hand, Bucky leads you to a back corner table adjacent to a door marked _Toalete_.

The lights sparsely scattered around the small place glow a sickening yellow, making the wooden furniture and walls look ancient and in desperate need of a spruce up. The shot glasses clank on the dented surface of the table, and you’re about to take a seat when he grabs your arm and shoves you through the door.

“Wha—Hey! What gives?” You stumble into the cramped, pungent hall and frown at him under the single, flickering lightbulb.

His shoulders are hunched, elbows jutting out of his sides. One foot is set forward like a bull ready to charge at you. “Why are you following me?” he says through a low growl.

You don’t know what the fuck is going on, but you can’t help laughing at the ridiculousness of this. “Maybe because I didn’t want my arm yanked out of its socket.” You raise your brows. “You dragged me through the city, remember? ‘Follow’ isn’t the word I’d use.”

His feet eat up the distance between you until you’re compelled against a wall, the paint-chips crushed under your back. You flinch as he aims a fist at you, only for it to punch the wall dangerously close to your head. The vibration against the back of your head chatters your teeth.

“No more quips,” he spits. “Who sent you?”

“ _Sent_ me?” You take a step forward in an attempt to get some semblance of control of the situation, but he doesn’t budge, instead thrusting you back against the wall and tearing a grunt from you. “What are you talking about?!”

“I’m asking the questions. _Who sent you_?”

“No one,” you yelp over your pounding heart and shove his hand off you. The force of the movement jostles your shoulder bag and it falls down your arm.

“Don’t test me. I’ll rip your heart right out in two seconds flat.”

“No one sent me,” you say, the words squeezed out of your tight throat.

Shit, this guy is intense. And hella paranoid.

His eyes are hidden under the shadows of his cap but the scrutiny is heavy upon you. Whatever he sees on your face he believes because he steps away and relaxes his shoulders. “I had to make sure. Sorry.” He spins around and walks out, leaving you gaping after him.

_What the fuck?_

It takes you a moment, but after you compose yourself (and your heart is back safely where it’s supposed to be) you follow after him and take a seat across from him. You drop your shoulder bag by your feet and eye the full shot glasses.

“ _Noroc_.” He holds one glass out to you in a toast and slams it back.

You clear your throat and avoid his eyes. “You-You can’t really rip my heart out, right?” You scratch your neck. “It was like a, um, metaphor or something.”

The corner of his mouth quirks up. “Or something.”

“Why do you think someone would be following you? Or am I still not allowed to ask questions?”

He tilts his head far back enough to reveal his hooded eyes. “I’m a war soldier turned escaped deadly weapon.”

He sits there, unnaturally still. An air of careless nonchalance surrounds him that—if what he’s saying is true—you suppose is all a smokescreen.

It should sound totally bizarre. Except you’re living in a world where a God fell through another realm and into the middle of New Mexico. Not to mention that he just had you up against the wall and threatened to know ‘who sent you’.

Do you believe him?

Does it even matter?

“Okay.” You pick up your shot glass. “Cheers.”

“Don’t you watch the news or read the papers?”

You wave a hand and grimace as the liquor burns down your throat. “Thor breaks a building with freakishly strong hammer, kills four people; HYDRA operatives disguised within government agencies around the world; Captain America retires and sips Mai Tais on Tony Stark’s private beach.” You shrug. “Nothing new, and hardly any of it true.”

“If you’re smart, you’d be walking out that door this moment.”

“But if you wanted me dead, there’d be no point, right? You’d rip my heart out in”—your drop your voice to mimic him and curl your fingers for air-quotes—“‘two seconds flat.’”

Bucky lurches forward in his seat and you catch the bottle before it falls off the unstable table. He’s close enough that you can smell the alcohol on his breath. “I know thirteen different ways to kill you right now.” His head tilts to the bottle in your hands. “Fourteen.”

“Now you’re just intentionally trying to provoke me.” You bring up the bottle of _Horincă_ closer to your face and attempt to read the ingredients, but a small picture catches your eye. “Oh hey, plums!”

He drops back into his seat. “Why the fuck aren’t you scared?” He’s grumbling, and you hide a smile as you look at him coolly.

“There are worse things than death.”

A twitch in his jaw, and his head inclines, hiding his face entirely. You take that as agreement.

 

**_~ &~_ **

 

“Could you teach me some moves?”

You’re strolling down another alleyway an hour later. It’s warmer now than it was before—though that might be the alcohol coursing through your system. You tapped out about a third of the way through the _Horincă_ , and while you’re feeling _a tad_ of the effects, it seems Bucky’s the same stick-up-his-ass mute as earlier this afternoon.

“Y’know, a little of _this—_ ” You aim a fist at his abdomen, which he blocks with ease. You both come to a halt under a balcony and you wriggle your arm free, your bag falling off your shoulder in the process. You let it rest on the ground and bounce away on your toes. “Come on. Teach me.” You go for his neck this time and he dodges it smoothly.

“Stop.”

You poke at him, all the while saying, “I heard there’s a SHIELD Agent who can break a brick with the tip of her fingers. Can you do that?”

“Cut it out.” He swats your hand away like it’s an annoying fly. “I mean it.”

“Aw, please? What if I need to defend myself against a thief? What if—” A gasp rips out of you as Bucky grabs your arm and twists it behind you. He yanks you around, your back to his front, and an arm circles your neck in a secure chokehold.

“Your pulse is racing,” he whispers, hot breath tickling your ear.

“I’m not afraid.” The words slip out of your mouth without a thought.

“You don’t know anything about me.”

“I know more than you think.”

He scoffs and softly pushes you away.

“You wear that hat like it’s a crutch, and you find comfort in it because it lets you observe while hiding in plain sight.” You spin to face him. “Home is a sore subject for you. You’re either hiding from something or running away from it.” His jaw muscle twitches, and you cock your head. “Or maybe both. You’ve lived here for a while, or at least you’re well acquainted with the city; you didn’t seem to have a problem navigating the alleyways to find that hidden gem back there.”

The heat of his glare burns through you, but it only eggs you on.

You take incremental steps closer to him while he’s distracted with your words. “You seem to favour your right hand when you touch me, but your left worked just fine when you were eating the plum earlier. With your glove still on—which is weird, by the way. And despite what you said, I know you won’t hurt me. Not intentionally.”

“That’s what I’m afraid of,” he says under his breath.

You’re inches apart now; both sheltered under the slab of concrete above your heads. “What do you mean?”

He shakes his head, a stiff jerk to the side. “Nothing.”

“Tell me.” You grab hold of the brim of his cap. His hand on your wrist stops you but you don’t relent. There’s a brief moment where you stare into the shadow of his face, and you’re close enough to see him studying yours.

His hand slackens, fingers grazing down the length of your arm as his Adam’s apple bobs with a swallow.

With a smile, you lift the cap off and glimpse—finally—his face unimpeded.

While you were slamming back shots earlier, there was this gut feeling that there’s so much more to him that what he claims to be. Looking into his unguarded eyes for the first time, you know you’re right. There’s this gravity, this haunting darkness in his eyes that gives your heart a squeeze.

You inch your head closer, your breaths intermingling in the small space between you.

He mumbles your name in a weak deterrent.

You shush him, bringing your fingers to his warm lips. You let them wander over the side of his scruffy face, and his eyes flutter at your touch. “What are you afraid of?”

“I’m trouble… You’d be better off without the likes of me.”

“Then why are you still here?”

His expression shifts with slight muscle twitches, from adamant to doubtful to torn. His lips thin as his eyes harden—a second before he grabs the back of your neck and slams your mouths together.

It’s a hot and wet kiss featuring slick tongues, clashing teeth and gasping breaths. His stubble burns your skin, stroking a fire within you that bursts with desire.

 _Fuck_ , you want him.

You drag your hands through his hair, clutch the strands at the roots and tug, pull—god, the absolutely _filthy_ noise he makes; like a restrained guttural sound.

What would it take for him to let go?

You kiss him harder, wrap your arms around his neck and pull him flush against you. His own arms envelope your waist in a firm grip and draw out a moan from you as you’re rubbed up against him.

A shrill _meow_ reminds you that you’re making out in a dirty alleyway, and you pull away with a thick smacking sound. If he fucks the way he kisses, then you’re in for a wild night.

“Let’s go,” you say over a pant.

Bucky’s eyes are dazed, flitting over your face and lingering on your parted lips. “Where?”

“My place.”

He smirks, and several minutes later, you’re cramped on the train, heated body pressed against his as it speeds through Bucharest. Warm bursts of the setting sun flash through the city’s unique skyline like a nonsensical morse code signal.

You look at Bucky through lids half-mast. You’re leaning against the door while he stands in front of you, arm resting above your head to brace himself against the rocking motion of the train. Your bodies grate against one another with every jerk of the train, sending anticipated pleasure rippling through you.

On the next jostle, Bucky grinds your pelvises together and drags a soundless moan from you. His eyes flicker down to your heaving chest. A pink tongue sneaks out between those impassioned lips and wets them.

Tilting your head, you lean in to brush your lips against his, sipping at his upper lip and dodging his attempts to deepen the kiss. You break the teasing touch, and his heated eyes narrow as you smirk.

It’s easily the most erotic train ride you’ve ever taken and it ends way too soon, but you’re vying for the promise of being alone together. The ten minute walk between the station and your apartment building is cut in half as you practically run in the twilight, joyous lust bubbling out of your mouth, a similar expression on Bucky’s face.

You’ve barely closed the door to your crappy apartment when he pushes you face-first against it, his hand cupping between your legs.

“Yes,” you say on a groan, tilting your hips for more pressure. Twisting your head, you seek out his mouth.

He spins you around and boxes you in with his arms, so much like at the pub but the intense emotion thickening the air so very different. “I’m gonna fuck you so hard you’ll feel me for days.”

 _Oh, yes_. A shudder scampers through you. You palm him through his jeans with your left hand, and he hides his face into your neck, your skin absorbing his groan. You hook your other hand over his arm and the shock of what you feel jerks you from the hazy pleasure, your head bumping against the door. “What…?”

Bucky stiffens and attempts to move out of your grasp, but your fingers dig into his sleeve. You yank away his left glove to reveal a metal hand.

 _Oh god. What happened to him? Did it hurt? Can he feel anything with it? Is it_ just _his hand; what about his arm or his legs?_

You open your mouth, but nothing comes out. Blinking, you try again—and again, nothing.

There’s no mistaking it; the fingers glint in the fading light through the window. It clenches into a fist, and you half expect a squeal of metal to pierce your ears.

His face tightens, and his stare is so concentrated it’s almost as if he’s glaring. “Great,” he says harshly, “you’re speechless. _You_.”

“No!” It bursts out of you so unexpectedly that it startles the both of you. You use that to your advantage and draw closer, covering a palm over his cold, hard fist. “It’s okay, Bucky.” You tug him closer, but he resists. “It just—This doesn’t change anything, I promise.”

You bring his fist to your face to press a kiss to the back of it. It’s cold, smooth and steely, like the blade of a knife, and you’ve no doubt his power.

Taking a deep breath, you slide your hands up his chest—his heart is pounding just as hard as yours is—and push both of his jackets off his shoulders. Your hand catches a snag at the tip of his collarbone, and your wide eyes shoot to meet his wary ones.

His shirts follow the same fate. You find yourself watching on bated breath as you slowly reveal his chest inch by inch. There are slits in his arm and a red star printed below the shoulder.

You graze the angry scar tissue where skin meets metal, and lungs burning, you gasp in your next breath.

His face is blank. “Last chance.”

 _I’m a war soldier turned escaped deadly weapon._ That’s what he told you.

You shake your head. You mean what you said; this doesn’t change anything. There are so many more questions now, but you don’t want to push him. “Kiss me.”

There’s a moment where Bucky just stares at you, and you think maybe you failed some test or he’s changed his mind about you.

And then he exhales and grabs your face in both hands. His mouth slants over yours, and he kisses you with a brutal pace, swallowing your sounds of rapture.

You blindly guide him to your bedroom with lips still fused together and spend the next hour in a tangled heap.

 

**_~ &~_ **

 

You brush your fingers over his silver arm resting on his sweaty chest. Your fingertips catch on the slits. “Can you feel that?”

He makes a sound that’s neither here nor there.

Placing your hand on his chest above where his own lies, you tilt your head back from where it rests on his right shoulder.

There’s an old lamp on the floor in the middle of your bare-bones bedroom, and the stained-glass light bulb you found at a market casts psychedelic shapes and colours that catch his relaxed face. It’s a truly beautiful thing to see—Bucky unguarded. It looks so much better on him than the feigned indifference he’s exuded all day.

His prosthetic thumb grazes the side of your cheek. “What?”

Your eyelids flutter at his touch (it’s going to take a while to get used to it), and you grin. “You’re falling in love with me, aren’t you?”

“Shut up.”

“Are you smiling?” You lift onto your elbow. “You are! Mr. Grumpy Face is actually _smiling_.”

He tries to roll away from you as a rough chuckle escapes his mouth, but you tighten your arm around his waist and snuggle into his side.

The sound of kids playing on the street filters through the crack in the window above your bed. You’re both quiet as you listen to the sound of shrill laughter and excited chatter. A feminine, reprimanding voice cuts through, and the kids groan.

“I wish time could stop,” you say. “We could be like this forever.”

Bucky squeezes your hip. “With our plum trees.”

You laugh and turn to smother the sound into his chest.

“Thank you,” he mumbles, lips pressed along your hairline. The unnecessary gratitude comes out of left field, but you understand what he’s implying. Or, at least, you think you do.

You bite your lip and hook a leg over his. “Are you hungry? There’s some food in the fridge.”

“Later.” He presses you impossibly closer to him.

Heaving a deep sigh, you close your eyes.

The cold morning air burns your nose when you next breathe in. You don’t know what time it is; just that your whole body is tingling, but the space between your legs is pulsing. You reach down between your thighs and grip the back of Bucky’s head. With his mouth full of you, he moans, eliciting a shudder of pleasure through your body.

He’s doing amazing things to you. The ceiling and walls are bathed in a kaleidoscope of colours, and you swear they’re swirling around.

Just as you’re about to peak, he rolls you onto your front, hands skip down the length of your back and produces shivers through your restless body. There’s a crinkle of a condom wrapper before he’s straddling you and grinding his thick erection over the crack in your ass cheeks.

The small room overflows with heavy pants, encouraging moans and the slapping of wet skin as he ruts powerfully into you. Fingers dig into your squirming hips. Breathy groans broken up by unintelligible mutters.

He was intense before, but the way he’s moving against you right now is so much more—you’re about to burst out of your skin. You raise your hips and thrust back against him, his hands providing you with momentum.

Dizzying minutes later, you climax on his lap with your foreheads pressed together and arms wrapped around each other. His hand is shoved between the two of you, working you to greater heights while he throbs inside of you. You collapse onto him in an exhausted, satisfied heap.

The next time you open your eyes, the sun is shining and you’re deliciously sore. Bucky took you twice more this morning; first when you woke up to pee and returned the favour and roused him with a blowjob, and again when the sky was grey and air crisp, and he had to muffle your cries of ecstasy so the kids outside your window wouldn’t hear you being pounded to within an inch of your life.

Stretching your overused muscles, you slide a hand over to the other side of the bed—and lift your head with a frown.

You’re alone.

**Author's Note:**

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